Here Are Your Children, Welcome to Hell
by Citizen Chauvelin
Summary: Musical fic. Chauvelin wakes up one morning to discover that he will soon be a father and decides he cannot deal with that kind of a commitment. ChauvelinMarguerite. First attempt. Please review.
1. That's Not Fat

**Ladies and gentleman, this is a Scarlet Pimpernel story. Welcome. Though I love the book, this shall be based off the musical, which I like better. This thing is meant to take place sometime after Where's the Girl and before Armand gets arrested, just so you know, but that's not important, for very little, if any of it, will coincide with the musical. A word of warning: this will be heavily Chauvelin/Marguerite and it will stay that way. Percy will be mentioned, Percy will be in it a bit, Percy will not have Marguerite. That's just the way it is. Deal with it and flame me or leave and don't flame me. Yes. That is all.**

Disclaimer: As much as I wish it, I do not own The Scarlet Pimpernel, any of it's adaptations, or any of the characters. That's it. Get reading.

Here Are Your Children. Welcome to Hell.

Chapter One: That's not Fat

A significant number of some large and significant things happened to Chauvelin over the past few days. So important were these things, that they changed the course of his entire life in such a way that he could never go back to the life he knew before.

This, Chauvelin knew. The trouble was, he couldn't for the life of him remember what they were.

He lay awake in his bed at the ungodly hour of 4:17 am and made an attempt to reflect on what happened the day before.

"Yesterday. Sunday. Woke up. Go clean. Chose Black Vest # 47 over Black Vest # 23. Went to the office. No executions." Chauvelin's thoughts came to an abrupt halt as this came to mind. "No executions, no executions. That is certainly unusual…why hadn't I noticed this yesterday?" He decided this was significant and settled on questioning Robespierre on this oddity later.

The rest of his memories of that particular day were a foggy mess labeled with large red letters, "Really Important Stuff."

This frustrated him. He couldn't remember a thing, and he was inclined to blame it on the disappointing lack of executions the previous day.

Chauvelin was angry and very confused.

Chauvelin had a terrible headache. He turned over and went back to sleep.

* * *

He woke up more comfortable then he'd been in years. He kept his eyes closed and buried his head deeper into his pillow. A hand was running through his hair. Strange.

He tightened his grip around his pillow in an attempt to fall asleep again. It let out a musical, feminine giggle. That, too, was odd. He paid it no heed.

Another hand cupped under his chin and turned his head upwards and away from his pillow. This upset him. Warm, soft lips gently closed over his. This was significantly less upsetting.

Chauvelin finally opened his eyes and found himself looking into the face of someone he knew all too well.

"Good morning, mon amour" said Marguerite St. Just.

Chauvelin hadn't the faintest idea as to what was going on, so he did what any other man in his situation would do: he realized she was naked. He also noticed that her belly was swollen.

He sat up and didn't say a word; there were too many unanswered questions running through his head that simply needed to be explained. He finally got up enough wits to ask the most pressing and important question in his mind that could possibly get him an answer to the most disturbing and traumatic problem in his life.

"Marguerite?" he tentatively asked.

"Yes, my love?" she said as she slipped her arms around his torso and rested her head o his muscular chest.

"Why are you fat?"

Not half a second later, Chauvelin found his face in an intimate relationship with Marguerite's fist.


	2. I Hate Mondays

**Welcome back. This is, obviously, the second installment of what appears to be turning into a very long fic. If you've gotten this far, I commend you. That's quite an accomplishment. If I get some decent reviews or enough flames, I'll update within the week, to make the first group happy, and to piss of more people in the second case.**

Disclaimer: Because of International Copyrights, the Scarlet Pimpernel is not mine. Because of the irritating barrier known as "Fiction", Chauvelin, and the other characters, are not mine.

**Here Are Your Children. Welcome to Hell.**

**Chapter Two: I Hate Mondays**

In what he concluded was a vain attempt to make his morning better, Chauvelin trudged into the kitchen with the hopes of making breakfast. He may have been a bit happier had he taken the time to realize that the woman he loved was naked in his bed. Instead, he was furious at the complete lack of culinary items in his cupboard.

Taking a deep breath, he managed to calm down and settled on making the best of things. He took some flour and sugar off the shelf. Chauvelin was going to bake a cake.

Never mind he had no idea how, he was going bake one anyway. As he prepared to make the alleged cake, something tucked between some pots in the cupboard caught his eye. He grabbed the small vial and contemplated the label.

"Paprika." Chauvelin thought about this; it had to be important, he wasn't sure why, but he knew it. As far as he was concerned, he possessed super-human intuition.

"Paprika. PAprika. PaPRIKa. How do you pronounce that?" He brought his hand to his head and examined the possible pronunciations of the strange word that adorned the vile he held. This was how Marguerite found him standing as she walked into the kitchen.

"My God Chauvelin! You're nose is bleeding!"

"I wonder how that happened. It couldn't possibly have anything to do with a small woman punching me in the face."

"Oh. Sorry about that."

"PAprika? No, no it has to be paprika." Chauvelin quietly mused.

"What are you doing?" Marguerite inquired as she inched closer to the befuddled man.

"Making a cake."

"You're putting paprika in a cake?"

"No no." he stated as he dismissively waved his hand. "This is the most important thing in my life right now."

Marguerite's face fell a little at his words. "Darling, you're acting like you don't remember what I should imagine to be the most important event of your life."

"AH HA!" Chauvelin dropped the small bottle of paprika, for it no longer held any importance; it couldn't give him any answers. Here was Marguerite, who had come home from England and her idiot husband to answer his questions. She apparently knew exactly what was going on. Life, it seemed, had just become incredibly simple.

"Marguerite, I don't remember a single thing that has happened over the past two days, and you, obviously, know everything. So, may I ask you a question without fear of you breaking another piece of my anatomy?"

Marguerite's mouth dropped. "Not a thing?" she asked quietly. "You don't remember a thing?" Chauvelin responded with a rather jubilant "Nope".

Marguerite sighed. "Sit down, darling, and I'll explain everything, and I think that will answer your questions. Chauvelin complied and took a seat at the kitchen table. Marguerite sat across from him and took his hands in her own.

"You recall that I married Sir Percy Blakeney and moved to England, correct?"

"Yes, I remember that."

"Good. Well, I was very unhappy in my marriage. Percy didn't seem as though he loved me. He hardly noticed me, he never touched me, and," she took a deep breath, "and he never came to bed with me."

"Oh, you POOR girl." He said in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

Marguerite chose to ignore that last comment and continued. "I was lonely and in desperate need of somebody. Then you came along and promised to love me and, in that state, I couldn't resist. You seduced me, Chauvelin. You really did. But I turned you away after I gave myself to you once again. Do you remember that?"

"I'd be a fool not to." He said in a voice filled with desire.

"Not long after that night, Chauvelin," her hands closed tighter around his, "I discovered that I was with child. I couldn't bear to be anywhere near Percy knowing that I was carrying the child of another man. I was able to hide it for seven months. I'm not sure how, but I did. When I couldn't hide it anymore, I thought it best to return to the father of my child." Marguerite sighed happily as her tale came to a close.

Chauvelin, to say the least, was dumbfounded. All he managed to retain from that little monolog was that Marguerite was with child. Strange, he thought, I heard that she and her husband were estranged. I must be missing something. .

"So, you're pregnant?" he asked gently.

"Oh, yes, mon amour!" she joyfully cried as she threw herself into his arms.

"Well, congratulations Margot. May I inquire as to who the father is?"

Marguerite stared at the man in abject disbelief. "Were you not listening to a word I said Chauvelin!"

"I heard every word, Margot, but I think I missed something important, for you have yet to answer my question."

The man was obviously incapable of putting two and two together. With a man like him in a high position in the government, no wonder the country was falling apart. "I'm pregnant with your child, Chauvelin."

They sat in total silence for a few moments. Chauvelin's head felt as though it was splitting; he woke up very early with a horrible headache he concluded was a hangover, his nose was bleeding profusely and was probably broken, and the only question he cared about anymore may have just been answered, but he wasn't sure. The only way to confirm was to ask.

"Is that why there were no executions yesterday?"

"What!" How did this man's mind work? None of his thoughts appeared to be even remotely linear. She only hoped the child didn't think like he did. "Chauvelin, this means that I've come home to you, and I won't be leaving."

Did he here that right? The woman he loved with all his heart had returned to him? This very quickly snapped Chauvelin out of his previous state and his senses returned to him. Yes, this is a good thing. "Marguerite…" he moaned as he pulled her very close and kissed her gently and passionately. Much to his delight, she kissed him back with equal desire. When they finally parted, she rested her head on his chest and he buried his head in her rose-scented hair. The day was finally starting to look up.

"Think of it, darling," Marguerite breathlessly said, "in two month's time, you're going to be a father."

What! He had forgotten that small detail. Children. Two months. Chauvelin knew all too well what that meant. He had two months left to live. Two months of freedom, two months of Marguerite all to himself before he went to Hell. Children. Tiny monarchs. Midget tyrants. He may as well be chained to Robespierre; who was he kidding, he'd prefer it.

Chauvelin had to get out of there. He needed to think this all over, and he had this little insignificant congregation he had to preside over at 8:00. Some meeting of the National Convention nonsense.

"What time is it, little love?" Marguerite fished through his jacket pocket in search of his watch. She pulled it out and squinted to see the position of the tiny hands.

"9:30. Why?" Chauvelin's head hit the table with a sickening thud, which did nothing to help his headache. Sliding Marguerite off his lap and standing up, he quickly headed toward the door.

"Chauvelin! Where are you going?" Marguerite frantically cried.

"Work" was his reply as he headed out the door. She intercepted him once again and kissed him. "Come home soon, my love." She said before kissing him again. Without replying, Chauvelin turned and left.

* * *

What a horrifically miserable morning. He had woken up with a headache, next to a woman he didn't remember going to bed with who punched him in the face and claimed to be pregnant with his child. This left him with two months of freedom and bliss with the woman he loved before his life officially ended. That is, if Robespierre didn't execute him for being an hour and a half late to the meeting of the National Committee, which he was suppose to preside over. All this in about half an hour.

The only thought that ran through Chauvelin's mind was "I hate Mondays".


End file.
